Chapter 597

The air tasted metallic, the color of rust and regret, as Ama woke. Her bones ached with the chill that always seeped into her cramped apartment, a chill that no amount of recycled heat could banish.

She pushed herself up, the joints in her knees protesting with a chorus of clicks and pops. Eighty-five years. Eighty-five years lived, measured, and slowly being chipped away.

She glanced at the chrono-implant on her wrist, the digits glowing a sickly green in the dim light filtering through the grimy window. 14:37:22. Fourteen hours, thirty-seven minutes, and twenty-two seconds.

That was all she had left. Fourteen hours until her body started to shut down, until the system claimed its due. For eighty-five years of life, it seemed like a pittance.

The Time Tax. They called it that, a sweet-sounding name for a brutal reality. Every breath, every meal, every flicker of light, every drop of water—all extracted from your lifespan.

The rich, of course, they lived like gods, centuries stretching before them, their implants glowing with years, decades, lifetimes. People like Ama, born into the sprawling underbelly of the Ivory Coast Sector, they existed on borrowed time, constantly negotiating with the clock.

She shuffled to the kitchenette, a cramped space barely large enough to turn around in. The synth-grain dispenser blinked red—empty. Of course.

She'd paid her last sliver of time for yesterday's ration, a meager portion that had barely staved off the hunger pangs. Today, she'd have to find something else. Find a way to buy more time.

Ama remembered the stories her grandmother used to tell, tales of a world before the Tax, when people traded money, a concept almost laughable now. A world where age was just a number, not a dwindling resource to be meticulously rationed. Those stories felt like myths, distant and unreal, compared to the grim clock ticking on her wrist.

She pulled on her worn synth-leather coat, the fabric thin and cracked with age. Each thread felt like a reminder of time lost, of years spent working in the chrono-factories, assembling the very implants that now governed her existence. The irony was a bitter taste in her mouth.

Outside, the corridor hummed with the drone of the city. The air was thick with the smell of recycled air and desperation.

Faces passed her, gaunt and hurried, each one a mirror reflecting her own fear. Everyone was racing against the clock, trying to earn, barter, or sometimes steal, the precious seconds, minutes, hours that kept them alive.

Ama made her way to the sector market, a sprawling, dimly lit space where people traded what little time they had left for the necessities of survival. The stalls were crammed with scavenged goods, withered produce, and recycled tech. The vendors' voices were hoarse, each transaction a haggling over moments chipped away from their lives.

"Grain ration, old woman?" a vendor called, his chrono-implant flashing a paltry two days. He looked barely older than sixty, but in this world, sixty was old. "Cheap today, only thirty minutes."

Thirty minutes. Ama's heart sank. Thirty minutes for a handful of synth-grain? It was highway robbery, but what choice did she have? Her stomach growled in response.

"Twenty minutes," she croaked, her voice raspy from disuse and the stale air.

The vendor scoffed, a dry, humorless sound. "Twenty? Are you mocking me? Time is worth more than that, old woman. Thirty minutes, final price."

Ama looked around, her eyes searching for another option, another vendor who might offer a slightly less exorbitant price. But they all sang the same grim tune. Time was precious, and they intended to bleed every last second out of those who had little left.

"Thirty minutes," she conceded, the words like stones in her throat. She extended her wrist, the chrono-implant cold against the vendor's scanner. Thirty minutes blinked away from her already dwindling lifespan, leaving her with a mere fourteen hours and seven minutes. For a handful of tasteless grain.

She ate the grain slowly, chewing each mouthful with a deliberate care, trying to extract every possible calorie. Each bite felt like stolen time, consumed to buy a little more time. The absurdity of it all was almost enough to make her laugh, a hollow, desperate sound that would have been lost in the market's clamor.

As she ate, she saw a commotion near the market entrance. Voices were raised, harsh and accusatory. Figures in dark uniforms, Time Enforcers, were pushing their way through the crowd, their chrono-implants glowing with an arrogant green, years practically dripping from their wrists.

"Time theft!" one of the Enforcers bellowed, his voice amplified by a device on his wrist. "We have reports of time theft in this sector. Everyone, chrono-check!"

Panic rippled through the market. Time theft was a capital offense. If caught, your remaining time was confiscated, and you were 'recycled' – a euphemism for being turned into raw materials to fuel the city's insatiable hunger.

Ama felt a cold dread grip her. She hadn't stolen time, but in this system, innocence was a flimsy shield. Anyone could be accused, anyone could be made an example. She tried to blend into the crowd, her heart hammering against her ribs like a trapped bird.

The Enforcers moved with brutal efficiency, their scanners sweeping over the crowd, snatching people at random. Screams erupted as individuals were dragged away, their pleas swallowed by the market's din. Ama shrank back, pressing herself against a stall piled high with rusty metal scraps.

One of the Enforcers stopped near her, his gaze sweeping over her, cold and indifferent. "Chrono-check, old woman." He extended his scanner towards her wrist.

Ama hesitated, her hand trembling as she raised her arm. The scanner beeped, and the Enforcer's expression shifted, a flicker of something like disdain crossing his features.

"Fourteen hours," he muttered, his voice laced with contempt. "Barely worth the air you breathe. Move along." He pushed past her, continuing his grim sweep of the market.

Ama sagged against the stall, relief washing over her in a dizzying wave. She had been spared, for now. But for how long? Fourteen hours was nothing. Less than a day. And she still needed to find a way to earn more time, to buy more grain, to simply survive another cycle.

She noticed a flyer plastered on a nearby wall, its colors faded and peeling. "Time Debt Forgiveness Program," it proclaimed in bold letters. "Volunteer for Sector Reclamation Project. Earn twenty-four hours of time credit. Guaranteed food and shelter."

Sector Reclamation. Ama knew what that meant. The toxic zones outside the city, the wastelands poisoned by centuries of industrial runoff and chrono-waste.

Volunteers were sent into these zones to dismantle old factories, to scavenge for usable materials, to essentially clean up the mess the old world had left behind. It was dangerous, grueling work, and few who went in ever came back with more time than they started with. Many didn't come back at all.

But twenty-four hours. Twenty-four hours was a lifetime to someone with only fourteen. It was a chance to breathe, a chance to eat, a chance to maybe, just maybe, find a way to survive a little longer.

Ama made her way to the Reclamation Center, a bleak, imposing building on the edge of the market sector. The air here was even heavier, thick with the stench of decay and despair. People huddled outside, their faces etched with a mixture of desperation and resignation. They were all here for the same reason – to trade their dwindling time for a chance at more time, even if it meant risking what little they had left.

Inside, the Reclamation Center was a cavernous hall, filled with rows of metal desks and harried officials processing volunteers. The air vibrated with the low hum of machinery and the murmur of desperate conversations. Ama joined the queue, her heart a leaden weight in her chest.

When she finally reached the desk, a young woman with tired eyes and a chrono-implant showing less than a week looked at her with a weariness that mirrored her own. "Sector Reclamation Program application," Ama stated, her voice barely a whisper.

The woman nodded, her fingers flying across the keyboard. "Name, chrono-ID, sector of residence." Ama provided the information, the official typing rapidly, her expression blank. "Age?" she asked, without looking up.

"Eighty-five," Ama replied.

The woman paused, her fingers stopping on the keyboard. She finally looked up at Ama, her eyes widening slightly. "Eighty-five? You know this is strenuous work, old woman. Toxic environments, physical labor…"

"I know," Ama said, her voice firm despite her trembling hands. "I need the time credit. I have no other choice."

The woman sighed, a sound of weary acceptance. "Alright. Sign here, here, and initial here." She slid a digital pad across the desk. Ama signed, her digital signature shaky and uneven. "Report to Sector Gamma loading dock at 0600 cycles tomorrow. You'll be assigned to Reclamation Team Seven. Dismissed."

Ama walked out of the Reclamation Center, the flyer clutched in her hand like a lifeline. Twenty-four hours. It wasn't much, but it was enough to keep her going, enough to push back the encroaching darkness for a little while longer. She had bought herself another day, at the cost of venturing into the toxic wasteland.

The next morning, the air was thick with a pre-dawn gloom as Ama arrived at Sector Gamma loading dock. A group of figures huddled in the dim light, their faces obscured by shadows and respirators. They were Reclamation Team Seven, her new comrades in this grim endeavor.

A gruff voice barked, "Team Seven, on the transport!" A transport vehicle, a battered, armored truck, rumbled to life, spewing noxious fumes into the already polluted air. They clambered inside, the metal seats cold and unforgiving.

The journey was long and jarring, the transport vehicle lurching and swaying as it moved through the decaying sectors on the city's outskirts. Ama peered through the grimy windows, watching as the cityscape gave way to a landscape of twisted metal, crumbling concrete, and sickly colored dust. This was the wasteland, the graveyard of the old world, where they were expected to reclaim what little value remained.

Finally, the transport vehicle shuddered to a halt. "Sector 7-Alpha," the gruff voice announced. "Reclamation zone. Respirators on. Work starts now."

They filed out of the transport into the acrid air. The stench was overpowering, a noxious cocktail of chemicals and decay. Ama donned her respirator, the filter hissing as it struggled to purify the air. The landscape was desolate, a panorama of rust-colored dust and shattered ruins stretching to the horizon. Twisted skeletons of factories loomed against the grey sky, monuments to a bygone era of excess and waste.

Their task was to dismantle an old chrono-factory, to salvage any components that could be repurposed, to essentially pick through the bones of a dead industry. They worked in silence, their movements slow and deliberate in the heavy protective gear.

The work was backbreaking, hauling heavy metal scraps, cutting through rusted wires, and sifting through toxic debris.

Hours blurred into an endless grind of toil and discomfort. The sun beat down mercilessly, baking them inside their protective suits. Ama's old body protested with every movement, her muscles aching, her lungs burning. But she kept going, driven by the desperate need for time, for life.

As the cycle wore on, Ama found herself working alongside a young man, barely more than a boy, with haunted eyes and a chrono-implant showing only days. He moved with a frantic energy, as if trying to outrun the clock that ticked relentlessly on his wrist.

"You're…old," he said suddenly, his voice muffled by his respirator. "What are you doing here?"

Ama looked at him, her own weariness reflected in his youthful face. "Trying to survive," she replied, her voice hoarse. "Same as you, I suppose."

"But…eighty-five?" he shook his head. "You've lived a lifetime. Why keep fighting?"

Ama thought about it for a moment, the question hanging heavy in the toxic air. Why? Why keep struggling, keep scraping for time, when death was inevitable, when the clock was always running down?

"Because," she said finally, her voice stronger than she expected, "life, even a little bit of it, is worth fighting for. Even in this…this place." She gestured around at the wasteland, at the desolation that stretched as far as they could see. "Even here, there is still…something."

The boy looked at her, his expression unreadable behind his respirator. He didn't respond, but he kept working, his movements a little less frantic, a little more purposeful.

They continued toiling through the cycle, the sun sinking lower in the sky, casting long, eerie shadows across the wasteland. Ama was exhausted, every fiber of her being screaming for respite. But she pushed on, driven by the promise of time, of survival.

As they were loading the last of the salvaged materials onto the transport vehicle, a warning siren wailed through the sector, its sound sharp and piercing. "Toxicity spike!" the gruff voice barked over the comms. "Sector 7-Alpha compromised! Emergency evacuation!"

Panic erupted. The siren meant a sudden release of toxic gas, a deadly cloud that could dissolve flesh and shut down systems in minutes. Team Seven scrambled towards the transport, their movements clumsy in their heavy gear.

Ama tripped, her old legs giving way beneath her. She fell to the ground, the impact jarring her bones. She tried to get up, but her limbs felt heavy, unresponsive. The siren wailed louder, closer. The toxic cloud was coming.

The boy, the young man she had been working with, turned back, his eyes wide with fear. "Old woman, get up!" he yelled, reaching for her hand.

Ama tried to grasp his hand, but her fingers fumbled, weak and useless. She looked at her chrono-implant. 00:00:05. Five seconds left. She had used up almost all her time, toiling in this wasteland, for a promise of more time that she would never receive.

"Go," she whispered, her voice barely audible above the siren. "Save yourself."

The boy hesitated, his face a mask of anguish. Then, with a final, desperate glance at Ama, he turned and ran towards the transport vehicle, disappearing into the swirling dust.

Ama lay on the ground, the toxic air stinging her eyes even through her respirator. The siren was deafening now, a mournful cry that echoed across the wasteland. She closed her eyes, a strange sense of peace washing over her. It was over. The clock had run out.

The last thing Ama saw, before the darkness claimed her, was the boy reaching the transport, scrambling inside just as the toxic cloud engulfed her, a silent, swift, and final embrace. He had survived. She hadn't. Her time was up, traded and spent in a world that valued time above all else, yet squandered it with brutal indifference.

Her lifespan, a currency, had finally run out, leaving behind nothing but dust and the echoing wail of a siren in the toxic wasteland. The clock, for Ama, had stopped ticking forever.